


Still Warm

by SadistSenpai



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Dark Energon (Transformers), Dubious Consent, M/M, Megatron fucks a corpse, Other, Slavery, Undead Sex, a semi-sentient corpse but a corpse nonetheless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25101475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadistSenpai/pseuds/SadistSenpai
Summary: Optimus dies (and is turned) during the events of Episode 4. Megatron proceeds to make the most of the situation.Otherwise known as 'Silly and Senseless Undead Smut.'
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime, Megatron/Orion Pax
Comments: 7
Kudos: 77





	Still Warm

A quick death makes for a perfect frame. 

The Prime had died with relatively limited damage. A few scuffs and a stab wound will be easy to fix, especially when one is only seeking cosmetic improvement. Beasts of this sort do not need functioning organs, nor anything beyond the most basic of joints, tho’ he might be inclined to indulge in maintaining a few specific systems. 

Optimus, like the rest, simply stands still when he does not have a command. He towers over the other Terrorcons, plating solid and paint soft, but his flat stare is similar to the mindless hordes around him. The violet lacing through him, glimmering in his optics and under his hood, says all it needs to. 

Megatron motions for the Prime to follow. And, beautifully dutiful, the Prime follows. A Terrorcon is knocked over the process, of course, but he doesn’t care much. They’re a shanix a scrapload, that lot: Optimus, however, is a  _ prize _ . His army means nothing when it compares to the simple value of having the  _ Matrix itself _ under his grasp. 

And, of course, having his precious friend back. 

This Optimus does not correct him when he calls it  _ Orion _ . This Orion obeys, without fail. Orion, sweet little Orion, dances when he tells it to, speaks when he demands, leans into his touch when he reaches out. It croons when he pays attention to it, like any dutiful pet might. 

He sets Orion down by his throne, kneeled beside it. He paints a pretty picture there, obedient as can be, a symbol of his Might over all who oppose. The Autobots wince whenever they see him, a pain that brings him _ great joy.  _

* * *

Orion’s head is soft upon his thigh. 

He’s taken to sitting like that lately. It’s easy to pet him when he’s this dutiful, a servo stroking down the back of his head. He looks the part of a delicate pet, happily stealing treats from his fingers when he offers him bits of scrap. His teeth are beginning to break into serrated rows but, ah, he’s not sure he minds. It looks rather cute on this frame. 

Having a sweet little pet makes meetings easier. Starscream’s rattling, often boring and long-winded, passes by in mere moments when he has someone to play with. 

And it’s in these moments, where he has no need to care for the subject matter, where he  _ wonders _ . He ponders morals and he ponders why he  _ bothers _ . With the Matrix Bearer under his control, he is Emperor Eternal: with Dark Energon, anyone who dares go against him is mere fodder for his army. He can do whatever he damn well pleases with his people and, really, who is going to complain?

Orion, sweet little Orion, presses his cheek into his palm, wanting more. 

Who is he  _ not  _ to indulge his precious little pet?

* * *

“On the bed.”

A failing of this sort of creature is that they rarely do things that are not preceded by a command. Orion is clingy and happy because it was demanded of him, not because he takes a wonderful initiative. But obedience is lovely enough, he supposes, as his precious pet crawls onto the berth to sprawl. 

He looks so pretty there, violet optics shining and the Decepticon insignia upon his shoulders glimmering. He should invest in some silks, he thinks. They always looked so silly on old Tower mechs but, ah, he thinks he can make an exception here.

“Roll onto your front, chin towards the end of the berth.”

Orion rolls over, head tilted to face him. He likes keeping him in view, he knows. Perhaps it’s a simple obedience thing or, perhaps, it’s a leftover from his mortal days. Optimus always had trouble looking away from him. 

“Good boy.” he croons, striding forward to run a hand over one of those long, soft legs. Pretty as they may be, he’s rather tempted to have Orion’s frame fixed. His Orion was tall, yes, but not this tall. He’d like to be able to carry his little Archivist around again. And all these scars, while they come carved in with pride, do not suit a mechanical designed to move data from one point to another. 

He rounds the corner of the berth, a hand upon Orion’s back all the way, and lets his panel click open. Eager, his Spike extends out; and Orion, sweet little Orion, watches it an eager, happy stare. They’d  _ always  _ wanted to do this together and, now,  _ finally _ , he can quell both of their desires. 

He tilts Orion’s mouth open, reminding him  _ not  _ to bite down, and fills the cavity with his Spike. It’s surprisingly warm in there, he thinks, considering how the only heat that comes from Terrorcons hails from their Energon. He’s still wet, with his oral fluid production still in effect (he’ll have to have Knockout make certain it continues to: this is an act he wants to continue to do), and the little noises that eek from his vocal processor as the spike slides deeper and deeper are wonderful.

Orion doesn’t have a gag reflex anymore. The slide in is simple and quick and feels absolutely lovely. He strokes down the back of his precious Archivist’s head as he sets a pace, thrusting in and out. Soft pets turn to a firm grasp, legs shifting to give him better leverage. He wants to take his time with this, enjoy it, but…

He finds himself hissing. The sight of his spike slipping in and out of Orion’s soft mouth is too much. It doesn’t matter that Orion’s optics are flat and expressionless, that the sharp point of breaking teeth drag against his spike: it doesn’t matter that Orion  _ isn’t  _ whimpering and begging for more, because he  **does** want this. He’s  _ always  _ wanted this. He isn’t moaning because his mouth is full of spike. That’s all. 

It’s easy to pretend. 

His claws rake a bit too deep as he bottoms out, thrusting deep into Orion’s intake. Transfluid bubbles out of the corners of his stretched mouth, slicking down his chin. Despite the spike in his throat, he does a rather good job of swallowing what he can. Terrorcons are always hungry, after all, and this would be a rather good treat. It’s lovely enough that Orion laps at his softening spike, trying to get every drop. 

His spike twitches, content to reharden. He is not as young as he once was, and a few moments will be needed. But, ah, he supposes there are things he can do to bide the time. 

“Onto your back.”

Orion rolls over, happy to continue lapping the drips of tranfluid from his cheek. His mouth seems larger now, the metal splitting like so many Terrorcons seem to feature. He’ll have to have that fixed later. As his pet is distracted, he crosses the berth, dragging his claws across that scarred, pitted metal. His finger catch on each wound, reminding him too dearly of times long past.

“Spread your legs and retract your interface panel.”

A click signals that his order was processed. Orion is dry, or as dry as one tends to be when they’re not actively aroused. His biolights, once that familiar blue, gleam the same violet as the rest of him: it’s pretty, he supposes, even if it does not match the rest of his paint. Perhaps, if he grows bored of violet, he’ll have filters added on so his Archivist looks just as he once did. Soft, sweet, and cute. 

He ducks briefly to rifle through the box he keeps under his berth, sorting through toys, temporary mods, and datafiles (disgusting as it might have been at the time of his budding rebellion, the so-called ‘fictions’ drafted by shanix-seeking entrepreneurs lead to an influx of Gladiatior on Archivist interfacing videos; he appreciates them more now than he used to) before grasping an old bottle of lubricant and pulling it free of the useless masses. Now that he has his Orion back, he supposes he doesn’t need any of these now. 

The lubricant will be handy, though. If Orion doesn’t respond in the natural way, he’ll have to have more made.

He applies a heaping fingerful over the blade of a claw and drags it through Orion’s labia, slicking his entrance. The Archivist leans up, watching him with flat optics. He seems curious, even if detached, about the process. His expression doesn’t so much as twitch as a finger slides into him, circling around the rim of his soft valve. He’s tight, wonderfully so (and expectedly so, he supposes: Optimus likely didn’t indulge with his precious soldiers often), and his cables hug the intrusion of a second digit. 

He scissors his digits, carefully dragging the blades against the sides of that soft valve. He needn’t be careful not to cut, he supposes, but he’d hate to see his precious Archivist spill energon. Lubricant squelches between his claws as he stretches and thrusts, feeling out the nodes he once dreamed of mapping out. Orion used to jest about constellations in their valves, loving the stars as he did ( _ and now we can see the stars, Orion, just you and me: I’ll even give them to you _ ), and he thinks he finds a bundle shaped like the Core. 

“Do you feel that, Orion?” he croons, reaching forward to cup his hand around Orion’s cheek. “You have the symbol of  **Unity** within you. Another sign we were never meant to fight, I think.”

Orion (hisses, teeth bared) whimpers, as sweet as ever. That splitting mouth tries to gnaw at his fingers, the scent of artificial lubricant enticing his ever-curious pet, but he shoos them away. Later, he thinks. They have plenty of time to play every little fantasy, want, and game he could ever hope for. 

But, for now…

Orion’s valve loosens steadily. Not as quickly as he thinks it should but, ah, perhaps such is a factor of this new stage of life. He’ll have to have Knockout fix that too, just so this doesn’t take so long. He rather likes the idea of tuning his little pet to a specific aperture, so he can take his pleasure within mere moments of prepwork. Another benefit to all of this, he supposes. 

Still, he’s tired of stretching. Orion feels loose enough for now. He applies another helpful squeeze of lubricant along his spike, stroking it to its full length (Orion is watching him, hungry: but perhaps not in the way he’d like). He grasps a long leg and lines himself up, relishing the sight of his precious little Archivist’s valve stretching open around him. It’s a tight squeeze, as slow going as the previous stretching exercise, but watching that hungry valve slowly swallow each section of his spike makes it well worth the while. 

Orion’s hand twitches, curling into a fist. He makes a funny little noise, something akin enough to a moan that he’s happy to think of it as such, as his legs spread a bit more. 

“Good boy,” he murmurs, reaching to stoke his pet’s head. The reach slides him in another few microns, bundles of nodes dragging across his spike. They even still  _ spark _ , sending flashes of pleasure shooting up his spinal strut. He tries a thrust, jerking the tip into a bundle, and Orion makes that curious noise again. 

“Do you like that?” he inquires, adjusting his grip upon a leg. He settles his other hand beside Orion’s shoulder, bracing himself there, as he drags his spike back out and  _ shoves  _ it back in. “I always assumed you’d enjoy being a little rough. You were always so gentle, so unassuming, so  _ sheltered…  _ all those datapads you used to hide from me were always rough and sharp, as passionate as your words could be. But you don’t need to hide your wants anymore, Orion. I’ll be as rough as you want.”

He’s quicker this time, thrusting hard enough to push past another aperture. A groan echoes in his own chest, relishing the wet slide and the sparks igniting along his length. Orion’s warm, warmer than he should be, but that’s quite alright. The heat feels wonderful, accentuating the cold snap of his spike slipping almost all the way out. The sparks ignite like a sip of Dark Energon along his nerves, urging him to  _ take, take,  _ **_take_ ** . 

And lo, he does. 

He bends Orion in half and slams into him, shoving past apertures and jamming the head of his spike into the back of his pet’s valve. Bundles of nodes light him up along the way, dragging groans and hissings out from deep within his chest. His Spark (or perhaps whatever is collected around that lonely shard of shadow, whatever can be counted for life in the undead) throbs with each thrust, hungrier and hungrier still. 

Another fun little noise slips out of his pet. Chuckling, he bends to nuzzle his darling’s chestplates, nibbling upon a windshield washer. Kibble of this sort tends to be rather sensitive, new to the frame as it is, and he imagines Orion enjoys it plenty. He may not whimper and beg as much as he used to, certainly, but he  _ knows  _ Orion likes this. And it’s with that certainty that he hastens his thrusts, striking the most deepset bundle of nerves until--

Orion, unexpectedly, screams. 

Violet sparks course over his frame, fists clawing at the flat berth. Surprised, Megatron finds himself thrust face-first into his own overload, jerking forward and spilling transfluid deep within. It gushes out, lacking a place to go, spilling over his berth and staining Orion’s codpiece silver. 

Orion, for his credit, seems strangely confused about what just happened. He whines and nips at the air, optics darting every which way. Shushing him quietly, his Lord slips free to pet him back into silence, letting his pet nibble at his fingers until he quiets. 

Pleased with this little surprise, he strokes Orion’s head and resolves to clean up later. A mutual afterglow with something he didn’t expect to be capable of overload is something to be  _ relished _ , after all. 

This, he thinks, will make the coming days all the more  _ enjoyable _ . 

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, that's disregarding the kinda-canon that Optimus is naturally immune to Bad Uncle's Bad Touch Juice.
> 
> This is fanon smut, we don't have to obey canon for it.


End file.
